


Beneath

by MemoryCrow



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Affection, BDSM, Cock Tease, Drugs, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gritty, Kissing, Loss of Innocence, Lots of kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Partners to Lovers, Porn With Plot, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Public Display of Affection, Smut, Snark, Teasing, Trust Issues, Undercover As Gay, bottom rogers, top weaver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 21:51:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MemoryCrow/pseuds/MemoryCrow
Summary: A Hyperion Heights drug trafficking ring is run out of an underground sex club. Weaver and Rogers go undercover to break the case. Veerrryyy tropey/devicey, but my detective peeps needed a push. :)





	Beneath

There were drug trafficking rings that took years to bust. Misleads, dead ends. People one might not think of as overly clever who, nevertheless, kept the business whole and vital. Motels, switching out vehicles, multiple states; nomadic and spread-out; a network. Surprisingly hard to pin down.

Weaver considered. The trafficking in Hyerion Heights was relatively new, by those standards, but it had gone on long enough. Filtering through and, perhaps, even bolstering the economy, it wasn’t hard to overlook. Turning up dead kids or manic visits to the ER, both homicidal and suicidal ideations, drug screens pinging all the big dogs; these things were news. City commissioners perked-up.

He took his job seriously. He was a detective; solving, ultimately stopping crime was what he was there to do. Most of the time. If he played dirty, it was to get results. The benefits that motivated most dirty cops meant nothing to him.

Because.

Because even though he took the job seriously, he was often visited with the sense that it was all make-believe. He turned up his jacket collar against the cold, just like Detective Weaver. He snarled unpleasantly at Victoria Belfrey, as Detective Weaver would do. He was a bit of a bastard, in keeping with character.

He looked in the mirror and wondered if he wasn’t just a little crazy. Lithium, Haldol; like knots on a rosary.

Still, he had his job and it must be done. Everyday life, no matter what he felt might lurk beneath the surface. And though he kept tabs on the local goings-on, he hadn’t looked deeply into the drug trade. He had not felt compelled.

Then, walking to his car from a pub, events conspired to make him thoughtful. A couple emerged from an alleyway, so vibrantly hyper they all but crashed into him. The woman was terribly bright and the sort of thin that was bigger around at knee and elbow than any other point of the limb. The man was overly confident, barreling them into traffic. He sucked his teeth in a weird, tic-like manner.

Weaver paused, watching them cross the road, impervious to death and dismemberment.

Maybe the man had reason to toy with his gums.

He’d lit a cigarette and hung around near the alley. Sure enough, more people tumbled out. A pattern emerged, there was a rhythm to it. A distant sound of thumping music, a nightclub, and a few moments later the stumbling people.

He’d stared up at the building. Nothing doing, aside from the pub, a take-out eatery on the same block. The alley was brick face, no windows and only two doors, both of which appeared to belong to the pub.

What else? The first couple, especially, had struck him in a particular way. The man wore a collar of leather, studded with rhinestones. The woman. But was she, really? Were the knees and elbows not a touch too big? Was her voice, ( _oh, sorry honey_ ), not overdone? Not masculine, but layered. It needled.

Almost mythical, in no way a lead, it was rumored that the head of the Hyperion Heights drug ring was called the Snow Queen. An abundance of cocaine was the primary precipitation. There was also a growing supply of heroin, crack.

Staring down the alley, utterly non-descript, Weaver wondered. Could the Snow Queen really be a queen? Or, that was to say, a drag queen?

It wasn’t much. Well, not really anything. Yet, he felt a hunch, a familiar tightening of the balls. The name, as well. If it was all drag and drugs, well then, the camp of it was absurd. But; Snow Queen. It got under his skin and niggled. _Nothing here is real_.

He’d returned to his car and locked up his gun and badge. What else? It was always his thought. If he paused, he noticed things.

Staring at his reflection in the car window, he saw only himself. Or, that bastard, Weaver. In another light, he saw a Daddy. On the prowl, looking for love. Maybe some blow.

Though he felt the chill in the air, he undid a few more button of his shirt. Last summer’s tan, a V at the neck, weathered at face and arms, was fading fast. Good. It made him feel even more made-up, a fake. He checked his cash on hand and swaggered into the alley. The swagger was by rote, he couldn’t help it.

Though unmarked, the door was stupidly easy to find. Just wait for it to open, spit out a person or two along with a far away, steady beat. Once in the door, he took a flight of metal stairs; down. At the first landing, payment, the price of admission. It was a little steep. And, _oh-ho_ ; a pat down. Another flight of stairs, still downward, and he could feel the beat of the music. Hand on the stair rail; _boom-boom-boom_. Under his feet and in his chest.

The stair emptied into a long, curving sort of cavern. Brick walls and arching patterns of brick, overhead. Old architecture, somewhat marred by metal pipes and air conditioning ductwork. At the end of the tunnel, (was it once part of a train tunnel?), were arched, iron-banded wooden doors, medieval in appearance. Current decoration included two winged gargoyles on either side of the door. More security, bland next to the gargoyles.

Though the doors looked heavy, they trembled. _Boom-boom-boom_. At a nod from one of the guards, Weaver pushed through.

Holy shit.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He glanced up from his monitor, from the messy piles of paper on his desk and looked at Rogers. Fucking hell. Scowling, he looked back down. He tapped his pen on his desk, rapid fire; stem-stern, stem-stern. How could he open the topic?

As with his own reflection, he was capable of seeing only Rogers. Rogers, part of work; yet he triggered The Feeling. The life beneath life; he triggered it, hard. Truth be told, Weaver knew precious little of Rogers’ stint as a beat cop. He’d made him detective and partner based on the feeling, alone. For good or bad, he needed Rogers close at hand. Of that, he was certain.

But, now.

He cleared his throat. Rogers looked up. Only Rogers. Eagle Scout, members of the Force called him. Moustache trim, boots polished. A good boy. His eyes were often puppy-soulful, looking to do right. Now, Weaver could very easily see another angle; He, the Daddy. Rogers, his boy, following his every move. Leather jacket, tight black tee, tucked into careworn jeans. Who tucked in tee-shirts? Rogers did, his belt buckle conspicuous beneath a trim belly, keys dangling from a belt loop.

Christ. He already looked the part.

Weaver steepled his fingers then folded them together. He cleared his throat again. Rogers leaned back in his chair, jaw line crisp. Handsome son of a bitch, black slashes for eyebrows and eyes that were intensely blue. They were stormy with unspoken emotion.

“What’s up?” he asked.

Well. Let’s get to it.

Weaver said, “I think I have a lead on the Snow Queen.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, indeed not. I stumbled across an underground club. Snow everywhere. People spending cash hand over fist; first come, first serve. While supplies last.”

“Bloody hell, mate. Let’s take it down.”

Oh, yes. Guns blazing. No proof of the ring, itself. Minor arrests for holding and a shitload of confiscated contraband. The trail of the contraband, vanished. Same old.

“That’s the idea, Rogers. I’m thinking, though, that to approach the real players, we’ll need to go undercover.”

Rogers furrowed his pretty brow. Weaver knew he was often torn. He respected his partner and wanted to learn, he all but begged to take direction. But he wasn’t always sure he trusted Weaver. Weaver wasn’t sure he could be trusted.

“Undercover? As… what? Buyers?”

Weaver blew out his breath. He raised both eyebrows and both hands – so fucking familiar. _Hello, me. What’s my name again_?

He said, “The club is literally underground, but its also _Underground_. It’s a sex club. Major kink. I saw women, but the majority of the clientele was gay men. Leather, bondage, S&M, the works. I’m pretty sure the Snow Queen is a drag queen.”

“Whoa. Mate.”

“Oh yes. It’s as hardcore as I’ve ever seen.”

“You’ve seen that before?”

Well.

“Well. Not really. But similar things. At any rate, I think the Snow Queen is operating from there. She.. he… probably has others working under her. Distribution. But she’ll be the main point of entry.”

Rogers looked thoughtful. His chair-back, springy, could rock. He rocked it. To Weaver it looked as if he rocked it using only abdominal muscles, core strength. Show off.

The rocking stopped. Rogers’ face was careful.

“You want us to go undercover as a gay couple.”

There you go.

“Yes. Become regulars. Get into the inner circle. It’s okay if you don’t want to do the drugs. Only one of really needs to in order to be convincing. I’ve got a tolerance. They don’t seem to affect me much.”

Or, at all. It was bizarre. It was like he had a supernatural constitution.

Talk of drug use washed right over Rogers. Weaver could see it – surprising given Rogers’ adherence to all the rules. He stared at some nowhere point that seemed to be Weaver’s sternum, slightly cock-eyed. He couldn’t get as far as the drugs.

“But… I mean. How convincing do we need to be?”

“Pretty convincing, Rogers.”

“You can do that? Will we have to be physical?”

“I think so, and yes. I’m sure a certain amount of public display will be necessary to get close to the queen.”

“But… how do I go about looking gay?”

The snort escaped Weaver before he could censor it.

Weaver stood next to Rogers in the bathroom, both staring at the mirror that spanned the wall.

“See?” asked Weaver.

No wardrobe changes, no affectation. There they were; a couple.

For a moment, Rogers said nothing. His blush put off heat. Finally, he blurted, “Fucking hell!”

“There, there, dearie.”

It had been slipping out a lot, of late. Dearie. Weaver wasn’t sure where it came from. The first time it happened with Victoria… oh. It felt so right. Not endearing in the least. Since then, it snuck in and dropped from his tongue. As Rogers did, it made him feel something like… a connection.

Poor Rogers. He’d probably groomed himself to his look since boyhood; cop 101. Short hair, clean at the nape, gun clean, uniform ready. Never the first clue that his rough and yet tidy look was such a standard within a certain community, it was almost iconic. The lad continued to stare morbidly into the mirror, seeing himself anew.

“Alright.” Weaver tried to redirect. In fact, he needed to take a piss, but just now didn’t seem like the time to whip it out in front of Rogers. “We’ll need to go over a few details. And we’ll need to get a little… practice.”

“Practice?”

“Aye. Why don’t you come round my flat, tonight. Sevenish? I’ll get us some supper.”

“Weaver. _Practice_?”

“Rogers. Yes. We can’t go into this looking as stiff and unreal as your hand. Practice.”

Feeling a touch of impatience, Weaver turned to leave. He was not unsympathetic. He gave Rogers a clap on the back. Still. He couldn’t mollycoddle him though everything.

Rogers felt morose. It was only surface; hair and clothes. Oh, maybe something in the walk. Fuck. That the only thing required to transform him into Weaver’s boy-toy was the loss of his badge and gun… Ugh.

Well, it was a little demoralizing. He caught himself; that wasn’t really appropriate, was it? The need to do right by others made him censor his own thoughts. One shouldn’t think _demoralizing_ , for there was nothing wrong with it. We are who we are.

It’s just not what he’d thought he was projecting.

He entered Weaver’s building, passing a wall of shiny, locked mailboxes. People left fliers and envelopes of misplaced mail on a table, beneath. A corkboard full of notices near the elevator. He took the stairs.

Of course he did. Cardio, staying in shape. Really, it was only the need to move. It seemed as if he was made of suppressed energy. He had to let it out, steadily, or it arrived in shocking bursts.

Although, it was true there were always doughnuts at work. Coffee cake. Packages of cookies. It always smelled of slightly scorched or stale coffee and a ghost of sugar. Residue of off-brand powdered creamer on the breakroom counters; fast food bags in the trash bin and a sharp, curl-of-the-tongue scent of salt and ketchup.

Weaver was guilty of seeking out the comforts of both sugar and caffeine, his modest love handles filling out into a bit of a belly. May as well take the stairs.

He went up four flights, his abdomen tense and his heart thumping up into his throat in a queasy way. He was nervous, made of fucking raw nerves. What did it mean; practice?

In contrast, Weaver looked relaxed. How, Rogers wondered? He opened the door, as casual as could be, white shirt rolled up at the sleeves. He handed Rogers a drink.

Rum, light-sweet, toasted. He’d paid attention, he usually did. Rogers began to wonder about his own powers of observation, important – one might think – to detective work. What did it mean that he’d missed a certain potential in his own face, his bearing? What else had he missed?

Weaver, for example. Though still frankly shocked and very edgy about partnering with Weaver in an all too real way, other things were beginning to sink in. That Weaver could tolerate hard drugs, apparently. A discover made while undercover, or was it a recreational discovery? Rogers had never even smoked weed.

So much that one took for granted when things were accepted at face value. Weaver’s look had once seemed conservative to Rogers. Regular guy. Smart guy, but a regular guy. His hair wasn’t as short, his look not as neat as Rogers’, but he was regulation issue, all the same. Nothing flashy, nothing attention-getting.

Bits of information wormed in and colored appearances. Weaver looked regulation, but his methods were not. Rogers had decided it was in service to the higher good, but sometimes…. That little spark of surprise, the chink within Rogers that allowed room for Weaver’s work style began to open his eyes. Yes, Weaver looked fairly normal, but he was not a regular guy. A wildness could peer from his dark eyes. There were moments of preternatural stillness.

His short hair went rather quickly to seed. Seen smoking outside or in a moment of expansive swagger, he was like an older, somewhat mellowed rock ‘n roller. He had a past, Rogers thought, and wondered what it was.

Supper turned out to be Chinese take-out. More salt and starch, paper packages smeared with grease. He should buy Weaver a whole foods cookbook, a membership to a gym. He imagined he might get shot for his efforts.

“Well, then.” Weaver said. Finally.

It was a strange feeling. Rogers realized he’d been waiting. He didn’t want the moment to arrive, yet he did. He had no tolerance for suspense, the delay of the inevitable. He was in knots.

Wordless, he stared at his gravy and rice spattered plate and waited for all to become clear. He probably had broccoli in his teeth, garlic on his breath. It was different to feel aware of such things with Weaver, wondering if he would offend. At close proximity. There was a sort of lurch in his lower bowel, an insecure and worrisome feeling, perhaps regrets over supper.

Weaver pushed his chair back from the table. Hand at his stomach, he might be ready to heave a mighty belch. His denim clad legs were wide apart. The jeans were loose when he stood but, seated, they clung to the shape of his thigh, snug and suggestive at his crotch. Rogers shifted in his seat.

“Come sit on my lap.” Weaver said.

It was insupportable. Rogers barked an abbreviated laugh. He looked up and met the sober, hooded darkness of Weaver’s eyes. Sometimes the brown was a deep chocolate, sometimes it was almost like pennies. In the deepening evening, a periwinkle and violet stacking of clouds outside the window, they seemed black.

“There has to be an ease to how we look together.” Weaver said. “When I’m sitting down, it should be your go-to impulse. Something simple, natural. It needn’t always be sexual, but familiar. It should be your norm to take your cues from me.”

“Bloody hell, mate.”

“Rogers, you already do it. It’s just a different context.”

Rogers felt a little wild. With the spoken request, it had finally come to pass. The moment. This was what ‘practice’ meant. The coming of the moment eased his nerved not at all. A caged bird beat its wings in his chest, panicked. It wanted to scramble up his throat, stick its beak out of his mouth and shriek.

Weaver was right. It was yet another thing taken for granted, an appearance he had not considered. Weaver was the senior detective, after all. Of course he would look to him for direction. It came to him, the way he stood always a few feet behind Weaver. Weaver interrogated, (menaced, issued thinly veiled threats, approached unethical deals), and he stood back; taller, harder of muscle, chin lifted, ready to fight. The energy that pooled inside him on pause, waiting for Weaver’s say-so.

“Come on.” Weaver said. “It’s best just to jump in. Bite the bullet. Rip off the Band-aid.”

“Thank you, great advise. Any more idioms?”

“We just have to get through the first shock and get comfortable with it.”

And then what, Rogers wondered. What about when it was over? No more undercover. Who would they be to one another then? How on earth would that work?

With a heave of his body, Rogers pushed out of his chair. His jacket lay over its back; he felt vulnerable without it. Beneath his tee-shirt, he felt all sensitive skin and jumpy nipples. To make matters worse, Weaver said, “Lose the piece.”

Unholstered, gun on the table. Weirdly homey-looking, to some sorts. It seemed Rogers was that sort. There were women in his past who had been flatly uninspired by gun parts on the kitchen table, the scent of gun oil wafting through the house.

Prompting, Weaver patted his thigh. It disturbed. Faded and worn material; he looked warm.

“I’m not so bloody bad.” He joked, a subdued smirk.

“It’s just so weird. Awkward, to say the least.”

“Right. Exactly what we don’t wish to convey.”

With a sigh, Rogers stepped into the open V of Weaver’s legs. He perched on a thigh, as upright and uncuddlesome as a reluctant, mistrusting child forced onto Santa’s lap. Weaver shifted beneath him.

“Christ, bony arse. Scooch up a bit.”

They wriggled. Rogers got a little less butt, a little more thigh braced to Weaver’s. At Weaver’s prodding, he leaned in. He tried to relax. Weaver’s arm came around him, a support. He felt Weaver’s sigh.

“You would think I was asking you to walk the plank. You’ve fallen asleep on my shoulder before. Drooled, even, I’m sorry to say. This isn’t so different.”

“I was pretty tipsy.”

“Well, by all means. Have another drink.” A touch of a leer. “Get good and lubricated.”

“Oh, mate.”

“Come on. We don’t want to be at this all night.”

“So… what sorts of things need to happen? Kissing and whatnot?”

“Certainly.”

“Isn’t it a bit… won’t we… Isn’t this going to be hard to get past, once it’s over? Don’t you think it will be strange, working together?”

“I imagine so. But it’ll pass.”

Rogers was stuck. Perched on Weaver’s lap, he couldn’t move forward or go back. Forlorn, he stared at his jacket and gun. He had no sense of how to proceed. Weaver’s chest against his arm, he felt another sigh. Yes, Weaver was warm.

Taking a different tone, Weaver’s voice became soft. Less instructional. It made Rogers feel womanish, weak with gratitude. He understood he needed to be babied, gently guided.

“It’s only touch.” Weaver said. His hand covered the back of Rogers, then moved up his arm. Though warm, even hot at the palm, it left a trail of goose-bumps. “Bodies. We touch all the time. A shaking of hands. A hand to the shoulder, the back.” His hand moved to Rogers’ back, going up and down.

“We touch people when they’re distressed. In celebration, we embrace. Were we not living where we are now, you and I might kiss in greeting or parting. This doesn’t have to be so monumental, so staggering. Some of what you feel is only cultural. Social, not sexual.”

Rogers made a grunted sound of assent, settling more to the cradle of Weaver’s arm, against his chest. But, no. It didn’t feel normal.

“When were you last touched?” Weaver asked. “A full embrace. Kissing. Sex.”

Oh, God. Good question. Were it not for masturbation, his willie might have atrophied. Rogers’ skin, already hypersensitive, seemed to make a little leap. All cells; alert! It was a hard question to answer, and the mere mention of sex set off alarms.

Surely they weren’t discussing something as private, as personal as sex. Undercover could only go so far.

“Unclench.” Weaver murmured. “I’m only asking.”

Squirming, Rogers said, “I don’t know. It’s been a while. You?”

Weaver huffed. “A while.”

It changed, the entire feeling. Weaver’s arm was cradled, his hand to Rogers’ back. His other hand came to Rogers’ chest. It braced there, over the sternum, long fingers spread apart. A big ring that featured a skull; oh yeah, coke snorting, rock ‘n roll Daddy.

Rogers could not stop the little gasp, the otherworldly feeling that Weaver’s hand subdued the thrashing bird in his chest. It felt as if a connection happened, a current between Weaver’s hands. The current thrummed through Rogers’ chest.

“There you go.” Weaver said.

What did it mean?

Weaver’s hand moved up, a warm caress. He cupped Rogers’ jaw. He had done so before; other circumstances. His hand moved into Rogers’ hair, fingers firm against his scalp. Rogers felt his eyes get heavy, his jaw go slack. It seemed wrong that those things happened.

Fingers making a steady, circular massage at Rogers’ scalp, hand warm to his back, Weaver asked, “Do you like that?”

Rogers nodded. It still seemed wrong. He couldn’t speak to acknowledge the way it felt, the sensuality and lush heat of it. He couldn’t make himself say _yes_. He’d asked women, clever fingers inside them _; do you like that_?

Weaver’s fingers fisted in his hair. Gentle, they tugged his head back, exposing his throat. So unexpected was the long exhalation, the feeling of a _rush_ that went through Rogers, he felt pained. Blood was a stinging force in his chest.

Weaver chuckled, though not at all harsh. It made Rogers blush.

“You liked _that_.”

Yes. It was obvious.

“You’re supposed to be cooperating, Rogers. Teamwork. I’m not actually meant to _seduce_ you.”

Well, that was mortifying. He was being seduced. Weaver was complaining about the work that went into it. The prying open of a debutante’s legs.

Awkward, he made his eyes open fully, regain focus. It wasn’t easy. The way he was handled made him feel drugged. He lowered his head, resisting the hand that gripped his hair. Meeting Weaver’s eyes, (oh, the endless shock of it, the series of shocks), he asked, “What do _you_ like?”

“Like, dearie?”

“Aye. Where… how do you like to be touched? Or kissed?”

Weaver gave a considering frown. Lifting his chin, he brought his fingertips to his neck, just under his jaw.

“Here.” He said. His fingertips traveled along his neck, up to his ear. “All along here. Very sensitive. Breath and touch at my ear. At the base of my neck.”

Why? Why did this morsel of information make Rogers blush, all over again? In fact, it was making him hard; another soft shock, pins and needles. It felt like parts of himself kept fainting and slowly reviving. Tunnel vision-dark; sudden brightness.

He was suddenly armed with knowledge of how to touch, how to kiss Weaver. It had never before occurred to him to obtain such knowledge, yet now it was his. That he was curious to use it, to have an effect on Weaver was another little shock.

One hand braced to Weaver’s chest, he moved in. Soft, he put his lips to Weaver’s neck. Surely, despite initiating ‘practice’, Weaver would unceremoniously dump him onto the floor. No, Weaver tilted his head, allowing. His hand made broad, reassuring circles on Rogers’ back. Rogers could see the circles within the darkness of his skull, as if following color trails.

It was only a little kiss, a buss, but Rogers felt as if he’d done something outlandish. Subversive. He hesitated, hovered. Weaver was so bloody warm. So close, pale creases in his skin stood out against the fade of a tan, buttery colored. A few silvery glints of stubble. He smelled of the sun, of cigarette smoke. It was in his hair, tendrils at his nape that wanted to curl.

“Like that?” Rogers asked. One required constant feedback. Circumstances demanded.

“Mm.”

He did it again, distantly aware that his hand, on Weaver’s chest, grasped. It held onto his shirt like a lifeline. He pressed soft kisses to the hollow at the base of Weaver’s throat. He moved up, closer to his ear. Here, unbidden, his mouth opened and he gave a light bite. His tongue touched briefly, tasting salt. There was a burst of something in his head… not quite memory.

Holy… He sat back up, startled with himself, wishing there was a way to take it back. Now. Now would be the moment when Weaver shoved him to the floor, where he would sprawl, confused by his body, his erection. His breath was accelerated; he tried to calm it. Weaver, too, was breathing harder. He was flushed. He swallowed.

“Good.” He said, or sort of croaked. For once he appeared uncertain. Another breath and he added, “Maybe that’s enough for tonight. We can try it again tomorrow, then make our plan.”

Oh, the confusion. Was Rogers relieved for the practice to come to an end? It _had_ been stressful. Was he disappointed? Knowing it would continue the next evening, would he remain in a state of high anxiety?

Looking down, he licked his lips. He tasted Weaver upon them and rubbed them with the edges of his fingers, thoughtful. It was as uncomfortable to stand as it had been to sit. God, he hoped his boner wasn’t glaringly obvious. In stops and starts, retrieving both jacket and gun, he somehow made his way out the door.

Weaver slept naked. It was a matter of course, but now it seemed a mistake. His body would not let him be.

It had been too long. His play to get Rogers to loosen up had turned on him in a big way. When _had_ he last been touched? When had he last been so close to another, taking in the subtle scents of skin and hair, feeling body heat, the anxious flutter of a rising pulse? Reading cues of flushed skin and dilated pupils, aroused by the signs.

The ‘practice’ was as much for himself as for Rogers; in this new territory, he was no expert. It was only because Rogers was _Rogers_ that he was the one leading, acting like the authority.

Something very wolfish had occurred. The little bite. It had bolted through Weaver and he’d felt as if he should tumble them to the floor, top Rogers and bite against his jugular. Not to draw blood, just to squeeze. Just to make it clear that he was the alpha. _See?_ His answering bite would say _. I could do damage, but I won’t_.

How heady it had been, coaxing. All the little touches and murmurs, all the while watching, amazed, as the petting took effect on Rogers. The blushing. Rogers’ clear desire to give in at war with what he thought was really expected of him. The straight man he was supposed to be, and how that man behaved.

He could hide very little, his face a storm of emotion. His brow tensed, jaw rigid. His eyes could become a hard mask, but often they were relentlessly _open_. Light spilled out and projected worry, thoughtfulness. Arousal. They made Weaver miserable when they revealed feelings of betrayal.

Weaver wondered, again, over the sense of connection he felt. Not only connection to another, but also as if Rogers was a piece of a puzzle. As if he connected something, and almost, not quite, there was a _click_.

It was this sort of thinking that drove Weaver crazy. It rose up within him and dwarfed everything else. The drug ring… surely a boon for the city if it was taken down, seemed trite and inconsequential. The job, itself, was a farce. Nothing meant anything, yet there were times Weaver felt he could see meaning in everything.

Promoting Rogers, for instance. The instant dynamic; he and his Boy-Wonder. On a case, he had only to glance at Rogers, a slight inclination of the head, and Rogers knew what to do. Rogers heeled to him, looked to him for approval or disapproval. Even when uncertain, he had Weaver’s back, canine to the end.

And he was right to wonder; what happened, after? Weaver didn’t know. He wasn’t at all certain he knew how the present was to play out. Even the little play, the small transgressions of the evening made him feel changed.

Hot, he tossed off his covers. His cock pestered him, wanting attention he was willing to give it but for the nefarious paths of his brain. It wouldn’t do as he wished. It wouldn’t settle on a woman, or even a few women… or anyone except Rogers. It kept returning to Rogers’ blush, to the bite. To the feel of their bodies, so close.

Annoyed with himself and his cock, he took it in hand. Buggar. He let his mind go where it would, think its thoughts. Over and over, his hand in Rogers’ hair, pulling his head back. He bit, lightly.

The more he relived Rogers’ blushes and gasps, the faster his hand worked his cock. Quick and dirty, legs apart, feet braced to the bed… fast jerking that tightened his lower belly and made his balls bounce. For only an instant, he imagined Rogers’ upturned face, mouth opening, lips brushed to the ripe head of his cock.

With a long, fairly loud groan of relief, he ejaculated pent-up spurts of angsty come onto his belly. Muscles deep in his pelvic floor throbbed and vibrated, his balls pulsed. _Okay,_ breathed his brain. It released a heavy flood of something narcotic, sedative. Unable to move, even for a quick clean-up, Weaver rolled to his side. Sleep took him down; he felt the world recede.

“Do we have to take it from the _very_ top, each time?”

Weaver felt exasperated. He had his own angst, his own concerns. It was too much to have to look out for Rogers’ dainty feelings as well. It was like courting a virgin, steering her to carnal matters when her head was filled with men on bended knee, living to please. Bearing gifts and rings of eternal promise. Every step toward the raw and primal was a step back to flowers and chocolate, all to cajole and reassure.

Rogers huffed, not unlike an irritated cat. He’d made it as far as the lap but was up again. He took Weaver’s advise from the previous evening and poured himself a second drink. There could be a third.

“Have a ‘last call’ sort of face, do I, dearie?”

Rogers huffed again. His jaw clenched. It was less about the appeal of his partner and more that it was all so bloody unreal. At some point, surely the point of Rogers quickening pulse, Weaver was just going to laugh in his face. How else could it be?

Weaver’s hand rubbed over his lower face. He muttered, “Christ, you’re a delicate daisy, aren’t you?”

Rogers’ eyes flared. Right. Call him a girl to hurry him into a gay make-out session with his work partner. That’ll work.

“What’s your rush, mate?”

“We’ve not got eternity to get to the actual job. In the actual club. Shake a tail feather.”

Did Weaver’s glance make a stealthy slide over his butt? Surely not.

He poured another finger and swallowed it down. “Alright.” He said, setting the glass down a little too hard. “If you’re so fired up.”

He didn’t perch on Weaver’s thigh. Daddy, indeed. He straddled his lap. His forearms rested on the chairback and he leaned close. His lips, silky and sweet with rum, ghosted over Weaver’s. Sitting back up, he ignored the sense of a distant explosion in his head.

“How’s that, then? No hesitation, familiar. Have I got it down?”

“Good.” Weaver raised a brow, his expression a little surprised. His arms came around Rogers, hands on his back, high and low. “Brief. Try it again.”

God. That had been a speedy little blurt of angry bravado. It was all Rogers currently had available.

Weaver’s hands coaxed, up and down. Surprised, Rogers felt his tee-shirt tugged free of his jeans. Weaver moved his hands up under the shirt and caressed bare skin. The small of his back, just under his waistband.

He leaned in again. The brushing of lips was truly alarming. Should they be doing this, even in service to the job? For some reason, Roni popped into Rogers’ head. She looked upon them, hands on her hips, lip curled with a look of amusement.

Hovered in the brushing, butterfly sort of kiss, Rogers asked, “What’s going on inside the club? How much do you think people need to see of us… this way?”

Weaver leaned back. He retrieved a hand and rubbed it over his lips with a muttered, “Moustache tickles.” His other hand, Rogers noted, remained on his back. It settled low, near his hip, pausing to squeeze at Rogers’ flank.

Something in it, the casual knowing, was getting Rogers hard. Weaver looked so bloody relaxed, self-assured.

“Oh.” He said, a little expansive. “Plenty is going on in there. I imagine more than you’re prepared for. We’ll be among the mere spectators, not participants, but still… it’s a sex club. One is there for a reason.”

“People are having sex? Out in the open?”

“Were you born in Mayberry?”

Well…

“Yes, they’re having sex. They’re snorting blow and shooting up. Taking pills. It’s a public display and various sorts of highs, including sexual. Voyeurism, exhibitionism. People objectifying and using one another… a great deal of kink.”

“You sound like you know a lot about it.”

“I may have mentioned, I was _there_.”

“I mean, about the subject.”

New images were forming in Rogers mind. Strange, how the surface could be mutable, depending on what was stirring, beneath. Conservative detective turned aging rocker turned into a man familiar with an underground of kink. Had he tied women up? (Men?) Had he compelled them to obey? (As he compelled those he interrogated?) …. Did they call him ‘Daddy’?

“Well, I wasn’t born yesterday, Rogers. Or, as luck would have it, in Mayberry. Did you spend your _entire_ time on the beat handing out parking tickets and rescuing kittens from trees?”

“That’s the fire department. Or, more likely, a tree service.”

“Fuck’s sake.”

It occurred to Rogers that they were in conversation, bickering a bit, while he straddled Weaver’s lap. While his back was felt-up and he nursed a semi hard-on. That was couple-like; was it not? Something of a mind fuck, but couple-like.

“We’re not going to get naked or anything, are we?”

“I’m not planning on it, dearie. But, if so, believe me when I say it will be you.”

“The hell I will.”

“Trust me. You’ve more curb appeal.”

Rogers wasn’t so certain. He found he was curious. His eyes lingered at Weaver’s open collar, wanting it opened, further. What was it like, his naked body? Stupid thing to wonder, he supposed. It was a body. They were all over. Bodies wore various things and walked around, or ambulated somehow. Or they were rigid and cold, beneath a sheet. Muscle and bone, blood and breath. Some extra flesh, here and there. A missing hand or whatnot.

And yet he did wonder. The body beneath him belonged to Weaver; that made it particular. It roused itself to whatever was happening in Weaver’s brain. It made Rogers curious, just as the knowledge that he might be able to turn Weaver on made him curious. A kiss under the jaw. He could linger, suck a hickey onto Weaver’s neck and listen to the sounds he made.

All of these things made him curious.

“So, you’re thinking we’ll just be hanging around, making out in the club?”

“It wouldn’t be unprecedented. It would be among the more tame things you’ll see there.”

“Well.” Rogers felt himself break into an unlikely grin, eyes too wide. In for a penny. “Shall we, love?”

“Oh, goodness. Have we a player?”

In answer, Rogers pressed his lips to Weaver’s again. quickly, the press became a nuzzle, then a cautious tasting. He tensed up when he heard his own _mmmm_ , but relaxed a little as Weaver followed suit, a husky purr. Weaver’s tongue touched to his and sensation rocketed through his body. He was unprepared for the onslaught.

A hurt moan was in his chest. It breathed into Weaver’s mouth, his own mouth opening wider, tongue seeking and receiving. His hips rocked. Mortified, aware, he tried to control the motion. Weaver’s hands gripped his hips, encouraging the rocking.

He had to break the kiss. In truth, he didn’t want to. It could go on and on, so far as he was concerned. It could continue until he was delirious, awash in heat and lost to sensuality, to the sensual. How easy it would be to lose himself.

It was the thing that cautioned him, frightened him, even; that he could be overwhelmed. That Weaver would see him that way and understand, fully, what sort of power and control he could have.

Leaning back, Rogers struggled to take an even breath. His hand rose to his chest. He could run in sprints or for distance, pacing it out; his chest should not feel pained.

Weaver, too, looked distressed. His mouth looked faintly bruised and wet, which cased a flip-flop feeling in Rogers’ belly. That Weaver wasn’t calmly glib was wholly gratifying.

Weaver watched Rogers. He’d told it like it was, but – for the uninitiated, there was really no way to prepare for it. It was not the same as pornography, even if the subject matter was the same. There was no distance. Clear and disturbing were those who seemed dehumanized, whether subjugated or subjugating. Though an avid attention to detail was present, so was apathy. Eyes gone flat with drugs and overexposure to people as meat, people as objects. Empty on the inside, holes that needed constant filling with… whatever. Individuality seemed quite worn down.

And the terrible truth; surrounded by it, so much flesh, the plundering of orifices and the loss of self to the senses, one was hard as a fucking rock. In the same instance of recognizing a clear breaking down of humanity, one was ready to fuck or be fucked, into oblivion. Or, at least that’s how it seemed to Weaver.

A sly, little serpent of evil, it was. In the moment, one felt fear, but also intrigue, willingness. It was only after, unable to shake thoughts of it that the trauma took hold. By then, it was too late.

So. Here he was, traumatizing Rogers.

Aside from the loss of gun and badge, he’d only made one moderation to Rogers’ look; black jeans instead of blue. He was so pretty, so handsome in that devil way. No one knew what a good boy he was, how alien was this scene to his world. In all black, he cut a blade’s line. He looked like a tightly coiled snake, dangerous, and it made his adherence to Weaver look all the more impressive.

His eyes, however. They were not under his control. No dead stare, a ‘fuck you’, ready in the cartridge. No sardonic eyebrow. He looked lost, haunted. His eyes were too big, and though he looked at everything, scarred for life in the first thirty seconds, his eyes looked far, far away. They spilled light, as they sometimes did. Weaver found it gut wrenching. And maddening. _Grow up_ , he was often compelled to say, if only to make Rogers take charge of his fucking eyes.

Here, he’d have to shout to say it. Whatever music played, it was not meant for the whole and well. It was mostly bass, felt in the body. A steady rhythm of drums, tribal, keeping tempo with the strained fuzz of the bass. No melody to speak of… some stringed instrument that was a periodic, skin-crawling and bloody scream. It climbed to dragon heights and sank low, into murk.

The club was dark, as they tended to be. Probably a blessing; no telling what littered the floor, even the booths, tucked away in cubbies. Lights flared and shimmered on various stages and platforms in various colors. Pumped in smoke was thick and noxiously sweet. Through smoke and shifting lights, bodies were revealed. At times almost seen in negative, they stained the retina with a grimy film of sin.

He tugged Rogers down by the arm. He was adrift, in danger of drowning. Brusque, he shouted in his ear, “Alright, Rogers?”

Clearly, no. But it snapped him to a bit, front and center. His eyes got in line. He gave Weaver only the briefest of wounded looks before the windows closed. A curt nod. Weaver nodded back.

The frank use of drugs was a little much; clearly no one was concerned about arrest. It was like a speakeasy for narcotics, a house party gone capitalist.

A being took notice of Rogers. It was an area where Weaver felt out of touch, reluctant to get in touch. What was the language? Drag queen, transvestite, transsexual. Time marched on and evolution was a slow but sneaky bitch. Things changed.

The being in question struck Weaver as probably male, yet was really quite pretty. Soft faced, doe eyed. Big, starlet upper lip and a coy subduing of the lower lip. Ah, there it was; Adam’s apple, pesky fruit. Difficult to get rid of. A peculiar name, given what the fruit eventually meant to Adam.

He settled on ‘she’. Whether biologically true or not, it was clearly the preference. Short skirt and heels, long feathery hair. Every mannerism was soft and sweet, more so than most women Weaver knew.

She linked her arm to Rogers’ with a pretty smile and he nearly jumped out of his skin. Weaver couldn’t stop the grim that bloomed on his face. Oh please, let such a creature sweetly romance Rogers. She pulled Rogers down to holler something in his ear. He shook his head, _no_ , blushing furiously. With another pretty smile, she moved on.

Rogers looked at Weaver, alarm in his expression. Weaver rolled his eyes. Wait ‘til Rogers saw the bulked-up, testosterone-poisoned leather daddies, donning vinyl gloves in order to work an arm up someone’s backside. _That_ was alarming, like seeing childbirth in reverse.

He jerked his head towards the bar. Rogers fell into step beside him. Loosen-up, Weaver wanted to say, though he could appreciate the difficulty of doing so. The more they were seen and accepted, people hitting on the pretty boy and whatnot, the better.

At the bar, Weaver made his opening move. He shouted an order for two beers, then grabbed a handful of Rogers’ tee-shirt and pulled him down for a kiss. Come on, everyone. We’re queer and we’re most certainly here.

It wasn’t the most convincing of kisses. It took Rogers a beat to remember he was supposed to want it, to be okay with being seen doing it. On a scale of one to ten, it didn’t really register. Overall, lacking in passion and spontaneity. Plus, they’d nearly cracked one another’s skulls… Weaver thought he might have loosened a tooth.

Rogers stood up straight, (ha!), a bit shaken. To his credit, he moved closer, hip to hip, a snuggle. Weaver put an arm around him, hand to his back.

Bottle beer in hand, Weaver led them to a… show, he supposed. There seemed to be no real beginning, no obvious ending. Different bodies arrived and did different things. He looked around for someone who looked like a Snow Queen.

On part of the stage, one man fellated another. Same thing in another corner, but the individual providing the service was sporting breasts, high and firm, yet stroked a cock that didn’t seem even a little concerned about estrogen.

Other people did other things, mostly men. The flinging about of a weirdly long, trunk-like penis. Audience members reached wildly for it and it performed a sort of benediction over them. Evidently, men twerked; who knew? Men were fucked in different positions, by cocks or toys, faces either blissed-out, pained, aggressive in the manner of a sports fan or even completely bored, as if feeling no stimulation.

It was the strangest feeling, watching. Weaver’s cock was in a semi-agitated, semi-interested state. His balls set up a tell-tale pressure, yet he wasn’t really into it. He found that, quickly, everything became mechanical. It actually _was_ mind-numbing. His mind, usually an avid player with his cock, felt numb, dull. It was difficult to say if the introduction of women would be of any more or less interest when there was so much skin, so much handling and mishandling of bodies, generally. It was a pistoning blur of flesh tones and an almost depressing over-lording of black. Frightful moments of a raw, livid red.

There were whips, bondage. People tied up and much compromised by various devices. Enduring punishment while struggling to hold a toy in an orifice. Wolfish grins all around should the toy fall out, a bizarrely comedic yet gruesome sight. More punishment for not properly hanging onto one’s toy; clearly an issue when no one had pockets and generally were not allowed the use of their hands.

People watching the circus turned to one another on occasion. Genitals were out, on the loose. Some openly masturbated; Weaver couldn’t blame Rogers for looking as if he wished to touch nothing. And perhaps dive into a vat of hand sanitizer.

Trying to offer a little more warning, he touched Rogers’ chin. His jaw. He turned Rogers’ face away from the stage and saw that his eyes were glazed over, dulled. How quickly it could happen.

Rogers didn’t wait to be pulled in. He seemed to read Weaver’s eyes, _okay-now_ , and moved close. The kiss was… slow. _God_. It was hot. It was everything the stage wasn’t. A nuzzle of lips, a slow tease of tongues, circling one another, then a stirring suck, a surprise from Rogers, an anticipation felt at cock and balls so keenly, Weaver felt weak. Weaver felt Rogers brace his hand at his upper thigh and squeeze. A throb moved liquidly though his body. When the kiss broke, things looked different.

Rogers looked more present, flushed and full-lipped, eyes dark with dilated pupils. Some of the activities on the stage looked suddenly more engaging. Weaver honed-in on a man laid back on a table, legs held wide apart by the man who fucked him. Slow, steady, long thrusts. They became shorter, more jarring. The table moved.

He was startled to realize he was picturing Rogers. _Doing_ this to Rogers. He was staring, slack-jawed, hand only moments from palming his crotch.

Feeling guilty, inwardly embarrassed, he looked at Rogers. Rogers was looking at him, unreadable. Raising his forefinger to the corner of Rogers’ mouth, Weaver mouthed, _little drool_. It was defensive, untrue, but Rogers looked mollified all the same. He looked down at his lap, back up at Weaver. It seemed as if he might lean in for another kiss, but then he was looking up, well over Weaver’s head. Eyes wide. Turning, Weaver followed his path of sight to the balcony.

Son of a gun. Party people in the house. Up in the shadows was a figure, male or female, dressed in all white. Seventies glamor; halter top and silky, bell-bottomed slacks, all of it white and sparkling. Glowing. A white-blonde wig and a _crown_. A crown, for fuck’s sake. She or he was surrounded by a circle of big men; protected. This had to be their mark.

He turned back to Rogers. It was enough for one night. Rumors could be substantiated; more to come. They would accomplish no more this evening than further damaging Rogers’ impressionable brain. Weaver stood, motioning for them to leave. Rogers look was one of absurd gratitude, relief palpable.

The _noise_. Weaver could tell he was getting old. The sex games, the props and purposeful drama, the exhibition. It was far less interesting and far more irritating than it might have seemed in youth. But the bleeding noise. The inability to speak and be heard. In the relative quiet of the street, his ears rang with a high whine. He wanted a shower, both on general principle and to get the sticky residue of smoke off of his skin and hair.

He was too fucking old for this shite. Too fussy. He wondered how Rogers was faring.

On the flip side, they both walked to the car sporting boners. Weaver had his jacket for camouflage; no such luck, Rogers. It was fairly obvious, a healthy-looking ridge. He wasn’t sure about Rogers, but – for him – it was the kiss. The second, less painful one. The squeeze of his thigh and the unsavory things he’d pictured, after. It was difficult even to feel satisfaction regarding the Snow Queen, he felt so distracted.

At the car, he paused. Rogers paused along with him. After a long moment of truly surreal eye-contact, something approaching telepathy, Weaver said, “My place?”

No hesitation. “Aye.” Rogers said.

“Good.” Weaver tossed his keys over the hood of the car. “You’re driving.”

Rogers didn’t think about taking the stairs. Before the elevator doors closed, he’d pressed Weaver up against the wall. The mouth that met his was open, hot and hungry. Hands on his body; one up under his shirt, another palmed to his aching cock. His responding moan was plaintive. He pressed himself into Weaver’s hand.

Weaver somehow got them out of the elevator. He got them to his door and was able to blindly work the key, fully engaged in kissing.

“You’re brilliant, mate.” Rogers murmured, stumbling inside the flat. “A genius.”

Weaver smirked, snorted, and the kiss instantly resumed.

Oh, Rogers had seen things, things he probably shouldn’t see. A lot of it was bad… like germs, it was _in_ him, now. It was working him. His focus had narrowed down to Weaver… the way he felt and tasted. The way he knew things. The bulge at his crotch when they sat at the bar and… oh, God. Oh, _God_. The _look_ on his face when he watched one particular pairing.

It had shocked Rogers, deeply. All of it. Part of his arousal was that he was simply shocked into it, a direct hit to the bloodstream. Images, alive and lively in his head.

But, _that_. Not really the sex, but Weaver watching the sex. He’d known exactly what Weaver was thinking, and knowing it was an electric current in his body. He’d have gone down on his knees if Weaver had asked him to. He might have done almost anything.

Was this mutual, Rogers wondered? This sudden and wild need, a desire and willingness to eat one another alive? It had to be. It couldn’t possibly be more practice. It didn’t feel at all impersonal.

Breaking the kiss, leaving Rogers wanting, Weaver led them to his bedroom. He tugged Rogers along by the belt buckle, which left him feeling dizzy, giddy. Past the bed; Rogers eyed it soulfully. He turned on the tap in the shower, letting the water get hot as he undid Rogers’ belt buckle.

Rogers felt as if he was coming undone. His insides were a little wild, spiraling between ascent and descent. His blood was high, cock so swollen, it was of concern, balls full to bursting. A rather sexist saying he’d grown up with popped into his head; _Keep his belly full and his balls empty_. It was an unexpected moment of nearly swooning away, surrendering to overstimulation like a corseted girl, challenged to breathe. He knew his role, here.

He knew his role, and it was not at all what he’d thought of himself. He’d known it when he sat on Weaver’s lap, when he watched Weaver. He’d known when Weaver pulled his head back by his hair; even when he’d given the little bite, a small challenge.

He was just what Weaver was portraying him to be. His desire to please Weaver felt enormous.

After a moment of feeling stunned, shakily watching Weaver get him undressed, he came to. So it felt. He was suddenly cognizant of the rushing sound of the shower, the growing heat and steam. His curiosity about Weaver’s body felt out of control. He unbuttoned Weaver’s shirt, worked his belt buckle. Suddenly, it seemed, they were both naked.

Rogers breathed hard, looking. Looking… his eyes couldn’t look away. Things he recognized as flaws seemed impossibly sexy. Things he’d never before thought to notice caught and held his attention.

The fade of the tan line just below the hollow at the base of Weaver’s throat. A sprinkling of light, chestnut chest hair, glinting here and there with silver. Thicker below his navel, spreading to his groin.

The shock, (so many), of feeling his mouth water when he looked at Weaver’s cock. An aggressive looking thing, thick and angry with veins, flushed, shiny at its prominent head. The wide flare of the head seemed to trigger the salivating; Rogers felt a weird drive to wrap his lips around the head, tongue the softness of the skin. To taste, to be filled.

“Come on.” Weaver said and – Rogers might die – took him by the cock. What could he do but follow?

It was so different. Rogers began to feel stoned. Under a fall of hot water, he kissed and was kissed. How he hurt for it, his body sore, lips yearning. His lips and tongue felt hot, so sensitive. His hand moved over Weaver’s back, wet and slick, and he pressed almost painfully into a full embrace. Full body contact, skin to skin, the cushioned press of Weaver’s belly, firm arms around him, a taut resistance of thigh.

Oh, the cock. It found his and the tease of it; glancing off of one another, touching, sliding, wet; it was agony. It was madness. Weaver’s hands moved over his chest, grasping at a muscled pec, petting through dark chest hair. His hands moved low, held and kneaded Rogers’ ass, a growl in his chest.

He initiated soaping up and Rogers luxuriated in the feeling and sight of his hand, slippery-wet, moving over Weaver’s chest and abdomen. Down his back, over a firm curve of butt. He stroked Weaver’s cock, rather in disbelief. For a hot, heady moment, he pressed close behind Weaver, mouth just at his ear. He kissed, sucking at water, his soapy hand in a fast stroke on Weaver’s cock.

Weaver was in bliss and it stoked Rogers fevered and frank lust. The weight of Weaver’s body fell against him, his head back, mouth open. His hips thrust, which affected Rogers so keenly, he thought he might whine aloud.

Weaver stopped it, just shy of coming. They rinsed off, turned off the faucet. Still voraciously looking at everything, Rogers dried off and wondered; now what?

Why did it arouse him so, the lift of Weaver’s knee as he dried off his legs, a shadow and fullness of furred balls. The slight bend at the waist, the portly part of his belly winnowing down to hips, to a flatness of abdomen, just above the hearty jut of his cock.

Just… God. Why did it all seem so bloody sexy?

Weaver eyed him as well, rather thoroughly. Intimate, he came close with a towel. Smirk in place, he insinuated it between Rogers legs.

“Your balls are dripping wet.” He said. “You’re so fucking hairy.” He huffed a small laugh.

Rogers could only swallow and say, “Aye,” feeling himself handled so.

Dried off, no more slippery, silky soap and water, it was a whole new set of sensations. Skin that felt water-logged and soft, body hair springy, feathery. Rogers smelled soap and a mineral scent of water. Close, he scented what he was coming to recognize as Weaver’s scent. Warm, a warm light that drifted in at the changing of seasons. Even after soap and water, his hair carried a faint scent of cigarettes.

“You’re so bloody sexy.” He murmured.

Weaver huffed again, not quite a snort through the nose. He looked up and down Rogers’ body.

“Let’s go to bed.” He said.

Bodies too hot, bedclothes tossed aside.

It was too much. Too much to process, to take in.

Rogers was malleable, workable. He sprawled beneath Weaver, wanting only to be touched. So badly he wanted kissing, and Weaver kissed him. Their lips would swell, their jaws would bruise from rubbing against stubble.

Neither could seem to get enough of it. It was like tasting something delicious, but the ingredients were elusive. _More_ , said the tongue. _I must know_ , said the mind. Delicate tasting, trying to sort out the narcotic source, investigative and full of longing.

The tease was so charged and wakeful, tongues touching, lips suckling. It became nearly unbearable want that crested as tongues became muscled, pushed fully into mouths; the change that happened, dark and overwhelming, when tasting became devouring, when kissing stole breath and, in every way, suggested fucking.

 _Take of my body_. Had religion any idea of how sexual were some of its messages? Greedy, Weaver took of Rogers’ body. Teeth to throat, he considered taking of his blood.

Rogers drove him. So overcome, so willing. His reservation was gone and he was wide open, wanton. It was breathtaking. A hand fisted in his hair, another at his throat; he moaned, lips yearning, long, dark eyelashes in a brief flutter. He wanted the weight of Weaver’s body on his. Legs entangled, bodies flush.

It seemed he wanted to disappear into sex. Weaver understood. Getting lost, so often seen as a bad thing, losing one’s way.

Yet it held so much allure. To disappear into a lush darkness and to feel the lushness, indefinitely. Movement in one’s head, like the rolling rumble of thunder, ominous. Skulls lit-up, bodies taken over by pain that was escalating pleasure. Fed by one another.

It was way too much.

It was too much when he propped up on pillows and watched Rogers kiss down his abdomen, move between his legs. A sudden, heartrending and boyish smile _. I don’t know what I’m doing. Tell me what you like, show me_. He kissed Weaver’s cock, little kisses all along the shaft, the head.

Oh, fuck. The gravity of that, because of who they were to one another. The wickedness of innocence and depravity. The loss of balance felt, watching Rogers become ever more seduced, watching his need.

Taking distressing note of his own need, his own seduction. His own looming and somewhat upsetting appetites. For Rogers’ cock was long and pretty. God, how it blushed, just as did his high cheek bones, his mid-back. Dark hair feathered over his body, collar bone to crotch, arms and legs. It should have been off-putting, but it felt so good. The softness of it over skin, warm. Just beneath, the supple give of firm muscle.

The couple on stage fretted about in Weaver’s mind, but he dismissed notions of taking things so far. It felt, already, as if things had gone wildly far-flung. Still. He turned Rogers over and straddled him, kneading the big muscle of buttocks. His fingers splayed over a lush rounding of bum and his thumbs, aggressive, opened. Parted the deep cleft, exposed a ruddy and possibly needy hole. The notion of penetration set his teeth on edge, as did so intimate a view. He rubbed his cock against it, lost to a heavy wave of darkness when Rogers moaned. Rogers pushed back with his hips. Seeing a film, a haze of red, Weaver gripped one hand to a hillock of butt. With his other, he stroked himself, fixated on the weeping, anguished head of his cock, flush to Rogers’ hole.

He wanted to fill him, ravage and invade, pour himself into Rogers. His hips wanting thrusting, fucking. His balls demanded.

Husky, Rogers said, “Do it. I want it.”

Oh, holy… risky business. Too much. Weaver certainly wanted it. Instead, he turned Rogers over again. Kissing so ravenous, it felt like fire.

They slicked their palms with saliva and worked one another, enslaved to the fury of the kiss. Both were loud, moans shot through with growls when they finally erupted; hips pumping, come spilling over fingers, knuckles; shooting onto bellies.

Later, Weaver would wonder what his neighbors thought. He wondered if they heard. At the time, he’d felt too insane to care.

He was almost drifting off, marveling at how quiet the night suddenly seemed, when Rogers murmured, “Can I stay the night, mate?”

It must have been near morning. Snarky, Weaver said, “No. Get out.”

“Seriously?”

“No.”

He cuddled close, a leg thrown over. He could have sworn he felt a heavy, canine tail give a contented thump on the bed. He must have imagined it.

Daylight found Weaver surprisingly crisp. Bouncy. He emerged from his bedroom, clean-shaven, smelling both medicinal and spicy. He bristled with efficient sparkle. He tossed his keys in the air.

“Let’s go get some breakfast.” He said to Rogers, whose eyes showed signs of haunting. Annoyingly, Rogers eyed his middle.

“Why don’t I make something, here? You eat out too much.”

“I don’t really have anything handy, dearie. I guess you could make cereal.”

“’Make’ cereal?”

“Well, pour it in bowls. Add milk. Oh… but I think the milk’s gone off.”

“Yet it’s still in the icebox, mate?”

“I like to give it a day or so to declare itself.”

Rogers rolled his eyes, standing. Yes, uncertainty was upon him. His eyes were trying to shield, but were spilling ghosts. Weaver caught his arm. “Hey.”

“Aye?”

Weaver pulled him close. He kissed, a small kiss. Testing. Rogers was blushing when he pulled away. Smile shy, he said, “We should be pretty fucking convincing.”

“Aye.” Weaver agreed.

And they were. In a matter of weeks, they were in the inner circle. It required a fair amount of lap-sitting. Nothing to fear from these two; a sleazy Daddy and his rough trade boy, here for kicks. The Daddy likes a little snow in fall. They were a regular feature. Security guards nodded on sight. The bartender didn’t ask what they wanted.

At first, the inner circle meant little more than the Snow Queen’s close net of social ties; party friends and security guards. She was, indeed, a drag queen, though Weaver was still uncertain if that was the right terminology.

It led to small, private parties. “Mommy’s got pressies.” The Snow Queen said. Good girls and boys said, _Oh yay. Drugs. Our favorite_. Eventually there were witnessed deals between the Snow Queen and both big-time buyers and sellers.

Back-up was called in, arrests made. The police force was startled by the number of naked people escorted away in blankets. It was peculiar when the music was turned off, the lights turned on. How different everything looked. The Snow Queen’s make up looked thick and tired in the light of day. The white of her costume was stained with… God knew what.

The feeling was so strong; the life beneath life, beneath the surface of the one he was living. It had been steadily growing, seeming to expand with the introduction of Rogers to his bed. During a little party at work, a celebration of what he and Rogers had accomplished, it loomed.

He smiled for everyone, but felt false. In part, he wasn’t as enamored with the justice system as one might hope. Chances were the same thing would pop up, maybe in some other form. No doubt, the Snow Queen had an attorney, maybe a team. (Her name turned out to be Aaron Rosenberger). Depending on the size of the operation, off shore accounts and whatnot, she might have a great deal of bargaining power. Once in the courts, it was largely out of his hands.

But also; the feeling. For all that he felt his bleak outlook to be correct, it was also just… nothing. He didn’t care. He’d had this feeling of let-down before. Job done, a success, and a feeling that none of it mattered. Nothing here was real.

It was maddening.

And there was Rogers. Business concluded, what would it mean for them? He was across the room, eating cake from a paper plate and trying to smile. Maybe he felt the let-down as well. Someone had put a glitzy little party hat on his head. His plastic fork was pink. He looked downhearted. Weaver wanted to kiss him, maybe bite.

After the party, things settled down a bit. A familiar routine kicked in. The dust of papers and the headachy buzz of the computer. Rogers brought a cup of coffee to Weaver and parked his denim clad butt on the edge of the desk. Long legs extended and boots crossed at the ankle; these young men and their narrow-legged jeans.

“Here you go.”

Weaver accepted the mug. “Cheers.”

They were both quiet, both taking sips of hot coffee. Medium roast; ho-hum.

“You should stop putting sugar in yours.” Rogers said.

“Oh, fuck’s sake.”

“It’s bad for you.

Weaver considered a snarky, _yes dear_ , but decided against it. He settled on a grunt. All purpose.

“In fact, you should re-think your whole diet. It’s really awful, Weaver.”

Now the temptation was to give a wounded look. _I thought you liked my belly_. Well, that seemed wrong, too. Too much up in the air, maybe not the best conversation for work. And Rogers _did_ fucking like his belly. As said the Dothraki, _it is known_.

“I could help you shop. Plan meals. Perhaps I could get you to consider eating something green.”

“That’s why I get Chinese food. Beef and broccoli. It’s health food.”

“Mate.”

Weaver shrugged. Didn’t it have to be better than Philly steak subs and chili cheese fires? He imagined shopping with Rogers at some overpriced market, trendy and healthful. A section for fresh, cut flowers; not gay at all. Wild Alaskan salmon and bunches of fresh broccoli. Farts that smelled like brussels sprouts.

He threw caution to the wind. Lowering his voice, he said, “I thought you liked my belly, Rogers.” His hand smoothed over it’s rounding, moved low and hooked onto his belt buckle, suggestive.

Rogers ducked his head. His aw-shucks grin was appealing as hell, as was his blush. Fucking adorable. Relentlessly hot, enough to make one a bit angry.

Leaning close, Rogers said, “I do. It’s your heart that concerns me.”

“Well then, not to fret. I’m heartless.” It is known.

Rogers raised a brow.

“Fine. Teach me your world of antioxidants and protein-carb ratios. Make me drink your slime-green smoothies and try to tell me it tastes of bananas and cocoa. Do your worst.”

“Oh, I will.”

They both sipped of the coffee which suffered from low self-esteem, eyeing one another over the mugs.

Rogers ambled to his own desk, butt sassy in his jeans, holster newly sexy at his hip. Weaver took another sip of coffee. At least it was hot.

“That’s right, dearie.” He smiled, playful. “Why don’t you get a little work done for a change, Killian.”

His mug came down too hard. Coffee, too sweet, sloshed. Feeling bewildered, maybe senile, Weaver stared at the puddles, edging to his paperwork. He looked up to an intensity of blue eyes, crow-black hair. The eyes that habitually spilled over showed shocked recognition.

Fucking hell.

**THE END**


End file.
